Scattered
by JustAnotherTeenageWriter
Summary: Life has always thrown everything it has in Dean Winchester's face. But what happens when it all becomes too much?
1. Chapter 1

I fiddle nervously with the amulet around my neck, waiting for the doctor to come in. I try to keep my legs from shaking, but I can't. The soft thudding is the only thing that fills the otherwise quiet room. Every so often I can hear a muffled voice, but that's it. Sitting next to me is Sam, I shoot a glance at him. He doesn't say anything, but he puts his hand on my forearm, trying to be reassuring I guess. It doesn't really work, but I appreciate the effort. I give a weak smile (all I can manage at the moment) and then I turn to look at the door for about the thousandth time. I don't like waiting, especially for things like this. Bobby is the one who finally breaks the silence.

"You're gonna be fine boy. This is to help you, not to hurt you."

I just look at him. I'm afraid that if I open my mouth vomit rather than words will come out. I nod my head at him though, not really believing in the action but doing it for his sake. I go back to messing with the amulet and trying not to shake my legs and failing at the latter.

Finally, after what seems like ages, the door opens and in walks a man who looks to be about fifty. He has speckled hair and a pair of glasses perched precariously on his long nose. He carries a plain clipboard tucked under his arm. Probably loaded with the details of my short miserable life.

Bobby stands to meet him and shake his hand, Sam does the same. I do not for fear of falling over if I do try to stand.

"My name is Dr. Mize and I have been assigned to Dean's case." His says by way of introduction.

He shoots a glance at me and smiles slightly. "This must be Dean."

I don't do anything, I'm still a little hung up on how he said "case" like I'm a criminal or something.

He sits down on a small round cushioned stool, sets his clipboard down on the counter, and turns to me.

"I'm gonna ask you a few questions, just so I can learn a little about you and how to help you. Is that okay?"

I still don't know if I'm capable of words, but I swallow and nod my head yes in response anyway.

"Alright." He says, smiling again, putting a hand on my knee. I stiffen when he does that but the doctor doesn't seem to notice.

He flips open the clipboard and takes out a pen from his coat pocket.

"Your name is Dean Winchester, correct?"

I nod my head.

"And how old are you, Dean?"

I swallow again and say, "Seventeen." only it doesn't really come out in my voice. Something rougher and lower, gruff and gravelly.

He marks it down.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine." I say, which is a lie I tell so often I don't even think before it slips past my lips.

He looks and me and I look him in the eye and I know that he sees right through it in a second, but he marks it down anyway.

"Have you been feeling depressed as of late?"

I think about making some smartass, but the look in the doctor's eyes shows he means business.

"Yes."

He marks it down.

"How long would you say you have been feeling this way?"

"A year, maybe a year and a half. I don't really know."

He marks it down.

"Did anything significant in your life happen that might have triggered how you're feeling?"

"Nothing that I'm willing to talk about."

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, I just shrug. He marks it down.

"Do you ever feel anxious over everyday tasks, like going to the store or going to school or answering the phone? Anything like that?"

"Yes."

He marks it down.

"Have you ever had any suicidal thoughts?"

I have managed not to look at Bobby or Sam during any of this, I know this is hard enough for them, knowing that I'm a screwup, but not knowing the extent. Just knowing that something was wrong with me, but not knowing how bad. I hate that they have to find out this way. I look past the doctor and into Bobby's eyes when I say "Yes.".

Bobby and Sam deserve to know that it's not them, it's me.

The doctor marks it.

"How often do these thoughts occur?"

I turn and look at Sam, he's looking at me with these big puppy eyes and I think how can I protect him if I can't even protect myself from myself. But I know that I need to do this for Sam, so he can see that I tried, I really really tried.

"Every day."

He marks it down.

"Have you ever considering hurting yourself or others?"

"Yes." I answer.

He marks it down.

"How often do you think about it?"

"Every day."

Another mark.

"Do you ever hurt yourself?"

"Yes."

He marks it down.

"How often do you hurt yourself, Dean?"

"Nearly every day."

Another scratch on the clipboard.

"Have you ever tried to commit suicide?"

I'm not really sure why he asks me this questions, that's pretty much the whole reason why I'm here.

"Yes."

My response echos across the room. I can hear the sound of the pen scratching across the clipboard.

"When was the last time you tried to commit suicide?" Even the doctors voice has softened. I don't look up from the ground but I know that he's staring at me, that Bobby and Sam are too.

"Two days ago." My voice just doesn't sound like my voice for some reason.

I see Sam move his leg so it leans against mine, trying to offer some sort of support I guess. I move my leg. I know that it'll hurt his feelings, but I don't deserve any support from anyone, not when we're talking about this.

I hear the doctor shift and I look up at him. He's set the pen down on the counter and he's leaning foreward and looking at me very intensely. I try not to break eye contact, but I can't look at him, so I just look his coat pocket.

"And how did you do that?"

It was quiet in the small room before, but it's absolutely dead silent now. It feels like the walls are slowly caving in on me. The silence is suffocating and it's too hot in the room. Everyone is looking at me. Expecting an answer, but I can't say anything. So I carefully role up the sleeves to my shirt and extend my arms by way of answer. The undersides of both arms are covered by clean white bandages. The doctor can probably guess the meaning.

"Do you still want to kill yourself, Dean?"

My throat is closing up, it too hot in this tiny room. I can feel panic rising in my chest. I'm trying my best to control it all. I just nod my head yes. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect myself. I can't have a breakdown here, not like this. I open my eyes, even though I'm not ready. The I can feel Sam and Bobby and Dr. Mize's eyes on me. The weight of their stares suffocates me.

Dr. Mize leans back, taking off his glasses as he does so. He picks up the clipboard and flips through the pages. Then he looks at me.

"From what you've told me and what you told the doctors when you first got to the hospital it sounds like you have severe depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. I want to prescribe you some medication that will help you, but I can't until you've had a psychiatric evaluation. Your psychiatrist and I will both be working together to figure out the best way to treat you." He stops talking to me and turns to Bobby. "I'm assuming you're his legal guardian?"

Bobby nods his head yes.

"Because he is a minor, it is state law for him to be put in a adolescent psychiatric ward."

"What?" Bobby asks, sounding taken aback.

Dr. Mize looks at him and then explains. "State law mandates that any minor at risk of hurting himself or herself must go to a mental health facility. There they will watch over him and he will receive treatment. He will be released once I and his psychiatrist feel he is no longer a danger to himself. Now, I have a facility that I recommend to everyone, but the choice to which one he goes to is up to you."

I feel like I'm about to pass out. I knew that I was mental, but being put in the loony bin? That's a whole new level.

"And how long will it take for him to no longer be a 'danger' to himself?" Bobby asks, mocking the word "danger".

"It depends on the patient. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. It varies from person to person."

"And what if I don't want him to go? Is there not any home treatment he could receive?" Bobby barks.

"I'm sorry Mr. Singer, the law mandates it. There is no home treatment. I have, however, been in touch with a top-notch facility and they are ready to take him in if that is the one you decide to go with. If not, I can help you find another. But this one is the best in the area."

I look up at Bobby and he seems conflicted. Then I glance at Sam. His eyes are pleading. I know how much he want wants me to go; he knows that I need help. He is the one who found me, covered in blood, my note clutched in my hand on the cold bathroom floor.

A thought occurs to if I'm beyond repair?

I hesitate.

"And what if I can't be fixed?"

"I wouldn't worry about that." Dr. Mize tells me. "The facility has a very high rate of success."

This doesn't really mean anything to me as I seem to have a high rate of failure.

"And what if I don't want to go?" I ask.

"Dean, please." Sam says, looking at me. "You have to go."

I just look at Sam.

"I don't want Dean going anywhere. I want to be able to watch him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself again." Bobby says, looking at the doctor.

"Mr. Singer. It's of the upmost import that Dean receives treatment as soon as possible. And I have no control over it. State law mandates that he must go." Replies Dr. Mize sounding exasperated.

Bobby still looks like he isn't having any of what the doctor say.s.

"May we speak outside for a moment please, ?"

Bobby just gets up and walks out the door, Dr. Mize follows suit leaving Sam and me alone together in the tiny room.

The silence is awkward and terse. I don't know what to say. I don't think there's anything I can say. So I'm left to mull things over in my mind. Of course I don't want to go, I don't want to leave Sam or Bobby. The idea of being put in an unfamiliar place with people I don't know who are just as crazy if not crazier than I am is absolutely terrifying.

Sam finally says something. "I want you to go Dean. I want you to get better."

"Sammy..." I say, planning on telling him that it's not as easy as you would think. That I can't just 'get better'.

"No!" He says, suddenly angry. "Don't you pull that 'Sammy' bullshit with me. You either want to get better or you don't. And if you want to get better than you need to go. And if you don't want to get better you still need to go. You need to go for me and Booby and Ellen and Jo. We all want you to get better. We would all miss you if you were gone. And don't give me and bullshit about you not being worth it. You are worth it. So you're going if I have to drag your ass down there myself." He finishes. I just stare at him.

"You can go the easy way, or the hard way. But you're going. It's your choice on how though."

I'm about to say something but the door opens and Dr. Mize and Bobby walk back in. Bobby looks slightly irritated but Dr. Mize looks happy and I have a feeling why.

"Dean, after we get done in here you are going to be able to go home and get a few things, clothes and such, and then you will be taken to a facility. It is for the best."

I don't say anything. I don't look at Bobby. I don't look at Sam. I don't look at Dr. Mize. I look at my feet and I try not to scream.

Dr. Mize goes over the details with Bobby but I don't hear a single word he says. All I can hear is a high pitched ringing in my ears and all I can feel is immense anxiety over the thought of leaving.

I keep trying to tell myself that it's for the best and that Sam wants me to go and so does everyone else. But all I can think of is being alone. Utterly alone.

I know that Bobby finishes talking with the doctor and I'm then ushered out of his office and back into the car and we're on our way home but it's like I'm in a dream. Not even that. It's like a nightmare that started as stray seeds of doubt bouncing around in my head that quickly planted themselves with roots that invaded my deepest and most dark memories. The leaves fanning out and shading myself from the sun. And every time I try to cut this damn plant down it just grows back twice as fast and the poison inside gets stronger and stronger. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.


	2. Chapter 2

We stop by home so I can pick up a few things, but I'm in a dream. And maybe I'm a little pissed that I have to go. And maybe I'm a little hurt that they're sending me away like this. And maybe I'm a little scared about being away from my family. But there's no way that I'm going to admit all of this to a head shrinker so they can deem me crazy and either dope me up or keep me locked up like a criminal. I just grab a few things. I'm not sure how long I'm even gonna be at this damn hospital or mental ward or prison or whatever the hell it is.

After I grab everything I can think of and throw it in a bag I sit on the edge of my bed and just stare at the wall and wonder a) when am I going to see it again and b) if maybe I'm being just a little bit dramatic about the whole affair. But the voice inside tells me that Bobby and Sam want to help me and they want me to get better. But then another, even louder voice screams at me that they just want to get rid of me and I've been nothing but a bother to them since the very beginning.

I'm not really sure how long I sit there, the two voices in my head arguing, as they always do. Battling for dominance. But I guess it's been a long time because Sam comes up to make sure I'm ready or alive or something. Either way his appearing at my door silences the voices and I look away from the wall and at him.

"You ready?" He asks me. Probably already knowing the answer.

No.

"Yeah, I guess." I reply. Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I can't still pretend like everything is peachy.

And I know by the glint in Sam's eyes that he doesn't believe it. Not for one second.

He doesn't say anything though, he's not breaking the habit now either. He just walks down the stairs, expecting me to follow. Which I do.

Bobby is just standing in the foyer, he hears us coming and looks up.

"Ready?" He asks. I'm not really sure why people keep asking that. I'm obviously not going to be ready.

I don't say anything, I just nod my head yes and he turns around and walks out the front door, leaving it open for Sam and me.

Bobby pops the trunk of the Impala I and put my few belongings in there. And when he slams it shut I feel as if though he's slamming me shut. Trying to get rid of me. Rationally I know that's not the case, but the voice argues otherwise.

I get in the front seat like always and Sam gets in the backseat as always and it's almost as if though we're going on a trip or something.

The drive to the ward is silent and tense and terse and long and awkward and makes me want to bang my head against the window until blood comes out of my ears.

The next hour and a half is arguably the most anxious occurrence in my life. With each mile the Imapla covers the more and more I can feel the anxiety filling up my chest. Boiling up and threatening to spill over.

My head hurts and my eyes hurt from trying to not cry and so does my throat and I feel weak. I feel weaker than I ever have before and that damn voice in my head that never shuts up just keeps on whispering those little seeds of doubt that I'll never be good enough and that Sam and Bobby are so glad that I'm going. Not because I'm 'getting better' but because they won't have to be around my sorry ass for a few weeks.

And I think these thoughts all the way there, not daring to voice them.

We pull into a semi-crowded parking lot entitled 'Patient check-in' and Bobby finds a spot close to the front and throws the Impala into park and turns the engine off. We all just sit there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say.

After a moment Bobby just pops the trunk open and gets out to get my few belongings.

I steal a breath and open my door. It's midafternoon and much to bright outside for my taste. Squinting, I look around. It doesn't look much like a ward. No barbed wire fences like I was expecting. But looks can be deceiving.

Sam gets out as well and we all head toward the door together.

None of us has said a single thing in the entire ride here and apparently we're not breaking that tradition just yet.

I want to stop outside the door for a moment, take on last breath of fresh air. Take one last look around before they check me in. Before I become a prisoner. But I don't I just take a deep breath and follow Bobby and Sam as they walk casually through the automatic glass doors. I understand how they can be casual, this isn't their life that's changing.

After we're inside the building it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they go into to focus I study my surroundings. It looks like any old normal doctor's office. Beige carpet with off-white walls. Chairs in neutral colors printed with squares. A lady in scrubs with butterflies on them sitting behind a desk behind a sliding glass window with a sign above it that read 'Patient Sign-In'. I gulp as Bobby heads over to it.

The lady notices us walking her way and smiles at me.

I do not return the favor.

"Patient name?" She asks Bobby once we get up there.

"Winchester. Dean Winchester."

She keys it into the computer and clicks a few buttons.

While I'm waiting for her to finish up a look around the room some more. There're a few people in here with me, not a lot. But more than I expected. I mean, I know I'm not the only fuck-up in the world, but still.

And for some reason they're all starring at me. I feel like they're judging me which, yet again is weird because we're all in here for the same reason.

I guess I zoned out for a moment because next thing I know I'm being lead through a set of double doors that I didn't notice earlier that reads 'Authorized Personal Only'.

We were all corralled down a corridor and then the nurse stops in front of a door.

"If you all will please take a seat in there the doctor will be with you in a moment." She says as she opens the door with another smile on her face. I do not understand how someone could smile so much in this place.

Today has been full of uncomfortable silences and I'm guessing now is not the time to change that.

After a few minutes the a doctor walks in. It's a lot like earlier. The doctor asks me questions. Bobby answers some, I answer a few others. And before I know it it's time for me to be taken back and for Sam and Bobby to leave and to be honest I don't really thing that I'm ready for that. I don't think I'll ever be ready for that.

"I'll give you all a moment." The doctor says as he stands to leave the room. He shuts the door quietly behind him and all that's left in the room other than us is a sense of forboding.

Nobody says anything. I know the second they do it'll begin the process of them leaving. Of me leaving. Of me being locked away.

Sam, strangely enough is the first one to say anything. "Promise you'll get better?"

He has so much positivity and faith in me. I don't know how.

"Sam..." I say, looking for words, anything really to tell him how impossible all of this is going to be for me. And part of me, part that I'm not going to admit doesn't want to get better. I deserve all of this.

"Don't 'Sam' me. Just promise." He says, his young face all too serious.

"Fine. I promise." I say and this kills me because I know how unlikely it's going to be for me to uphold this promise. And for just a split second I think I can see that Sam sees it too.

"Good." He responds. Then it's Bobby's turn to speak.

"I'm telling you boy, the only reason I'm doing this is because I want you to get better. I just want you to be happy again." And I know that that's all I'm gonna get from him. Neither one of us are the touchy feel-y type.

But the little voice in my head interrupts and says that he's lying. That I don't deserve it. I don't say anything else.

I am absolutely consumed by fear. I have no idea when I'm going to see them again, or eve if I'm going to see them again. Or if they even want to see me again. Probably not.

I shove every single thought I have in my busy head into my freak out box to be opened later, when I'm not with them. That's how I always deal with things and it's served me just fine so far.

The doctor comes back in and asks if we're ready and of course we're not but we all lie and say yes and they stand and I stand.

Sam walks over to me and wraps his arms around me. Brief and tight. "Get better." he whispers in my ear. I just nod my head and he lets go. Then it's Bobby's turn. He hugs me and when he lets go he says "This is gonna be good for you." And I don't believe him and next thing I know they're walking one way and I'm walking another and it takes everything I have not to look over my shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

The doctor leads me back into his office. "Alright, Dean I'm going to get you your clothes and show you to your room." "Clothes?" I ask. "Yes. All of the patients have a standard attire. No long sleaves or belts or shoelaces. Things of that nature." "Oh." Is all I can think to say. Who knew this place would be so stereotypical. I thought that I was at least gonna be able to keep my clothes and they would trust me to not hang myself with my shoelaces. Guess not. A moment later a pretty nurse knocks on the door and the doctor beckons her in. If I was feeling any better I would flirt with her. Too bad I'm not. She sets a stack of clothes down on the counter. White t-shirt, light blue pants, and a pair of slip on shoes. She smiles at me before turning to leave. I still don't understand what's up with all of the smiling in this place. "Thank you, Amber." The doctor, whose name I realize that I do not actually know, calls at her retreating back. I think it would be kind of awkward to ask him at this point. So I don't. "Alright, Dean. If you will grab those I'll show you to your room." He says, gesturing to my uniform. I stand and so does the doctor and I pick everything up and he opens the door and walks out and I follow. I pass a few patients on the way to my room but they don't say anything or even make eye contact with me. Good to know everyone is going to be so friendly. The doctor tells me a little about the facility and how everything works but I only catch bits and pieces. Just that girls have a wing and boys have a wing and there's an open door policy and that everything is on a schedule and so on and so forth. I take this time to study my surroundings. Everything is surprisingly open and light considering the darkness within. There are lots of windows everywhere and the walls are white and so are the tiles on the floor and there are light blue accents everywhere and everything feels very sterile and clean and organized and I do not like it. Not one bit. Eventually we reach an open door and the doctor walks inside. I follow suit. The inside of the room is much like the halls. Clean and sterile and white. And much like the halls I don't like it either. "This'll be your home for the next little bit. Make yourself comfy. I'll leave you to change. There's a map of the facility inside your nightstand. Dinner is in twenty minutes. Head down there when you're ready." And with that, he leaves. I like how he a) did not give me a definable time to my sentence and b) indicated that I can make myself comfortable here. Which I find very unlikely and c) gave me the option to come down when I was ready. Which I do not think will be anytime soon. I can feel anxiety welling up in my chest at the prospect of going somewhere unfamiliar. Being forced to interact, or at least seen and judged, by people I have never seen before. I do not like any of this. Not on little bit and I can feel tears start to well up in my eyes and I can feel this strings that hold me loosely together begin to snap and I can't let that happen. Not now. Not ever. I will myself not to cry. I stare at the single light in my room and wait until the tears have receded. I try and focus on the task at hand and get undressed and put on my new clothes. The fabric is the pants is coarse and it makes my skin crawl. This entire place makes my skin crawl. I have never felt more out of place in my life. After sitting in my room for half an hour and nearly going insane in the process I decide, against my better judgment, to go get dinner. If it gets too bad I can always leave and come back up here and sulk all by myself like I'm used to. I reference the map of the place and head out. I arrive to a surprisingly crowded cafeteria and look around for a moment before entering the double doors. It reminds me of the time right after Dad died and Sam and I had just moved in with Bobby and it was our first day at our new school and I walked in the cafeteria and I felt so anxious I could vomit. That day ended with detention for me and a bloody nose for some other asshole. I hope it doesn't happen again. I steal my breath and head inside and I try and not think about all the people who I don't know and for how the first time in my life I am utterly and truly alone. Naturally that doesn't happen and I try and shove the thoughts aside for later. I get in line and a lady grabs a tray and asks what I want. I hadn't really thought about it. I'm not actually all that hungry. I haven't been hungry in a while. I just point at the first thing I see, some pasta thing, and she puts it on the tray with a smile and asks if I want anything else and I say no and she puts a bottle of apple juice on it and a spoon and then hands it over the counter to me. I give her a glint of a smile to say 'thank you' and then turn around to face the tables. It really is just like the first day of school all over again. There are about twenty tables, all full or nearly full of boys and girls who I do not know and do not want to know. I've never been any good at making friends. That was always Sam. He could become friends with anyone. Even the people in here. But Sam would never be in here. I would die before I let that happen. Fortunately I spot an empty table towards the back next to a window and head towards it so I don't have to stand there awkwardly. Once I take a seat I notice just how loud it is in here. Not loud like a regular cafeteria, but loud enough. I look around and see patients smiling. Laughing even. It's strange to see people in here go on about living and laughing and smiling. I would think this was the one place that you wouldn't have to put up a front. I look in the eyes of a few of the patients and I see it. Or the lack of it rather. Their faces say 'happy' but their eyes say 'dead inside'. Before I can think about it anymore I hear a chair scrape and I look up and see a kid, maybe a year younger than me, take a seat across from me. I just stare at him and he stares back. He's tall and lean. Attractive to say the least. Jet black hair and fucking ocean blue eyes. "I usually sit here. You must be new." He says by way of introduction. "My name is Castiel." He adds. I just stare at him. He doesn't say anymore, but he starts eating. I had all but forgotten about the food in front of me. I pick up my spoon and take a tentative bite, not knowing what to expect. It tastes kind of like glue, but I swallow it anyway. Mental hospital food is no different than regular hospital food apparently. I somewhat remember my manners and reply. "Dean." Castiel looks up. "Hmm?" "Dean. My name is Dean." I say. "Oh." he says, and then goes back to eating. I look down at his arms, and see that he has a lot of scars just like me. I notice that they're not just lines. His scars are composed of weird symbols and sigils and I recognize a couple, but the rest are foreign. "They keep the demons and evil things away." He tells me. With a slight smile on his face. I didn't realize that I had been starring. I mumble a "Sorry." And look down at my food. I only take two or three more bites. A few minutes later a bell rings and everyone gets up and throws their stuff away. I get up to follow and so does Castiel. We don't say anything else to each other as we walk towards the trash. Or as we walk out the door together. Or as we head down the same hallway. Or when we get to my room and I see that his is right next to mine. Not one single word. Just a slight smile as he shuts his door. I walk into my room and I sit on my bed, it creaks slightly, but not as bad as some of the motel room beds I've stayed in. I lay down and stare at the ceiling. The doctor told me earlier that lights out was at nine but I don't even think it's eight yet, I'm not sure, there's not a clock in my room. He told us that we would have a little free time in the evenings but I don't really know what sort of free activities I could do here. So instead I think. I think about Sam and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Ash and Mom and even Dad. I think about how much I miss them and how I want to be a better person for them, I really do. I think about how every time I try and get better life just piles more shit on top of me. I think about how when I was younger my mother used to wipe tears from my eyes whenever I got hurt. I know I'm nearly grown, but damn do I wish she was still around to do it. To even just be here. But I would never admit that out loud. I think about Dad and how after Mom died he couldn't handle it and how he threw his life away until he was nothing. I think about how I promised myself that I would never be like him. I would handle the grief better. I think about how badly I fucked that up. I lay there and I look at the ceiling and I think about how alone and worthless I am. I wish I had a bottles, pills, anything. Anything to take it away. But instead I'm left with my thoughts and goddamn are they eating me whole. For the first time in a while I allow a few tears to slip out. I've been holding them in all day and if I held them in any longer I'm sure to explode. I try and keep everything under control but the few tears quickly turn into a steady stream and I can feel the sobs building up in my chest and I take one hand and then the other and I use them both to cover my mouth, to try and let no sound escape. I squeeze my eyes shut and I hope and I pray to the highest being out there that all of this will just end. I would give anything to have it end. I must have fallen asleep because I am jolted into consciousness by screaming. Awful painful, guttural, gut-wrenching screaming. I recognize the type. It's brought on by nightmares and demons and creatures that won't leave you alone. I know the feeling and I feel for the poor bastard, who ever it is. I really do. I grab my pillow and I put it over top my head like I used whenever Mom and Dad would get into it to try and block out some of the noise. It doesn't work. But I manage to drift off into dreamland somehow. And tonight my dreams are no different than any other night. Dark and full of that not so little voice telling me that I'll never be good enough. That my makeshift family deserves so much more than me. The voice tells me that I'd be better off, that the whole entire world would be better off without me. And I believe it. I believe it with every fiber of my being. At least I don't wake up screaming anymore. 


End file.
